


Lattes and Poetry

by IWillNotBeSilenced



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:31:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWillNotBeSilenced/pseuds/IWillNotBeSilenced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches her every day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lattes and Poetry

He watches her every day.

She comes into the library at nine, earlier than anyone else. Often waiting outside before the doors even open.  
She always holds a latte in a takeout cup which she drinks as she sits on the floor between the bookshelves, despite persistent protests from the librarian. In fact, most of the the time, she makes a show of drinking it in front of her as she walks past, her eyes glinting in amused defiance.

She pores over books and papers for hours, tapping her pen against her lips, her knuckles, her leg, more absorbed in the music blasting through her headphones- just loud enough for him to catch the baseline-than in her work.

She has quotes doodled on her hands and arms; a coat of words that impart wisdom about life, love and being stronger than anyone thought.

She never wears make-up, but her nails are painted black. She puts the edges if her nails in her mouth, running them up and down her lips thoughtfully, but he has never once seen her bite them.

Sometimes, when she's lacking inspiration, she gazes up at the ceiling, resting her head on the bookshelves, her fingers tapping a repetitive rhythm over her papers. He returns his eyes to his work then, out of fear that she should see him watching her between the shelves. That, and the fact that her eyes are so intense that he doesn't think he could ever look at them directly.

On a particularly quiet day, she throws a ball of screwed up writing paper across the room in frustration. She hasn't written anything in days. The paper lands on his desk. He hasn't written anything in a while either. He picks up the paper and strightens it out.

'Something in me understands that the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.'

He stands up, navigating around the shelves until he is in the aisle that she inhabits and drops the paper into her lap. He watches as she unfolds it and follows her eyes as they scan over the words written in neat, orderly handwriting beneath her own,

'Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.'

She raises her head, and meets his lips.


End file.
